


we burned our bridges (but the fires didn't leave us unscathed)

by InsertLogin



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: (also if I was writing it), Angst with a Happy Ending, Arsheesh Not Being A Bad Dad, Found Family, Gen, The Horse and His Boy if Clive Staples wasn't racist, tags will be updated as the story goes on, well. it might be a happy ending. could also just be bittersweet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:28:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertLogin/pseuds/InsertLogin
Summary: In which we get an introduction to Shasta, his father, and his now former dream.
Relationships: Bree & Hwin (Narnia), Bree & Shasta | Cor, Hwin & Aravis Tarkheena, Shasta | Cor & Aravis Tarkheena
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> In which we get an introduction to Shasta, his father, and his now former dream.

Shasta could have asked for a lot more in life. 

He supposed anyone could ask for more than what they got. That wasn’t special. What was, though, was whether that someone got what they asked for and if they got it, _how_. Or at least, that was something his father Arsheesh often said. 

“If a person does not have to even work to get what they want,” Arsheesh had said for the first time when Shasta was seven, “then they either did good work in the past and it is returning to them, or they are corrupt. It is usually the latter.”

“Why not the first?” Shasta had asked, because at seven, he had a sense of logic and fairness. “People who work hard should get what they want. They’re the ones who worked.”

“Some people _do_ do well because they work hard,” Arsheesh had replied softly. “There used to be more people like that, but not anymore. Now those who work just work. And those who don’t, they profit off those who do work.”

Shasta thought that was the first time his idea that the world was fair and nice was destroyed. And it wasn’t the last time. If Arsheesh was anything, he was honest about how the world worked. When Shasta asked, Arsheesh answered, usually delicately, but he answered all the same. 

When Shasta had asked why they always received stares when they went to the village, Arsheesh would explain. 

“You do not look like them and things that are unfamiliar are a threat,” he always said. “You have a father who looks nothing like you and a mother who is not even here, so they can’t understand. And to top it all, we do not live like them, we do not live with them, so they don’t know us, and what they don’t know, they don’t like.”

When Shasta asked why fishing more didn’t give them more money, Arsheesh explained how the flow of money worked, and how the fish was bought if the people wanted to buy them, and having more fish often meant that the prices went down. It had made no sense to Shasta, but Shasta saw them in practice, and he couldn’t deny what he saw. 

When Shasta asked why something was unfair, and why couldn’t things just _not_ be the way that they were, Arsheesh was the one who gently explained that the world held many unfair things and that just because Shasta wanted them to go away didn’t mean they would. 

Which was _probably_ why he never asked for more in life. He knew that asking for more never brought more, unless it was to make his father more upset, even if what he wanted more of seemed reasonable. 

Like more consistent meals. A warmer home. More time with his father. Things like that that Shasta felt shouldn’t have to be things he had to ask for more of. 

But the two of them were poor and working hard rarely helped, because good things didn’t come to those who worked hard anymore. In the stories and the legends, they did. In the poems and the histories, they did. 

But not anymore. Arsheesh had been born poor and had grown up poor. He had worked hard all his life only to get a child. Maybe that child made Arsheesh happy, but it also made Arsheesh poorer, because children took in more money than they gave out. 

Shasta tried to not feel too bad about that since Arsheesh always said that Shasta had been the greatest thing to come into his life. 

“Even more than the donkey?” Shasta always asked. Arsheesh would chuckle, rub his beard, and always reply, “Yes. A million times more than the donkey.”

So Shasta tried to live with that and to distract his thoughts with work, because maybe they would never get not poor, but at least they could be stable. At least they could be together. 

Maybe there was a lot that Shasta was lacking, but he at least had a father who cared, and not asking was one tiny way he could repay Arsheesh. Not asking and not _thinking_. 

Shasta snorted at that thought. He was supposed to not think about their circumstances and yet here was. Thinking about them anyways. 

“Shasta?” Arsheesh asked and Shasta looked up from the fish he was wrapping. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Baba,” Shasta said, deftly finishing the package of fish and moving his pile to be covered with ice. Arsheesh would be leaving for the village later in the week, and until then, the fish would need to be kept cool and preserved. “I was… just thinking.”

“You always think so much,” Arsheesh said, his eyes softening. “My little philosopher, would you like a story?” 

Shasta managed a tired grin and looked around. “Is it of King Sol and his army of fish?”

Arsheesh let out a deep laugh and looked at the array of fish around him. “No, no,” he said, “for if we tell his story, then he might realize what exactly became of his army.”

“It wasn’t a very good army, was it?” Shasta asked, holding a fish up to inspect the scales. “All scattered around. No order or method.”

“War can often get like that,” Arsheesh said, and Shasta looked up, suppressing a frown. The Look was on Arsheesh’s face. 

“Baba?” Shasta asked after an uncomfortable moment passed. He held up another fish, this one with an unusual coloring. “What is this fish’s story?”

Arsheesh looked at the fish for a good, long minute. 

“That fish,” Arsheesh said, “was the greatest librarian the world of water had ever known.”

Shasta wrinkled his nose. “Librarians must not be paid well,” he said. “It smells. And how can there be libraries underwater?”

“Well that’s what makes the libraries so great,” Arsheesh said matter of factly, as if this was not something he was making up on the spot. “You have to be able to preserve the books underwater, and only the greatest libraries can do this. And it smells because this fish spent most of the time working and preserving more and more books. It spent so much time that it neglected hygiene. But it was one of the greatest.”

Shasta did not ask why they had taken the fish then, if it had been so powerful and needed. Shasta instead asked to hear the rest of the story of the librarian fish, and by the time their work finished, the story had not yet reached the middle yet. 

“We’ll continue the rest tomorrow,” Arsheesh said, and Shasta could only nod, a tired sort of smile on his face. 

He could have asked and wanted for more in life, but at times like this, he was content.

It was the height of fishing season, and that meant that there was a hell of a lot of work to be done. Arsheesh hasn’t even tried to tell Shasta to ease up his workload like he usually did, with excuses about how growing children needed breaks and free time. Shasta would have been worried at the lack of the reminder if he had not been glad that he could help without some form of a comment.

The two of them were having a bit of a break from fishing work and had finally started washing the laundry. It was a quiet affair and as Shasta beat out clothes and laid them to dry, he couldn’t help but want something to disrupt the silence. 

He laid out another cloth and hummed a few notes of a little song that had passed through the village not long ago. He beat a rug until dust and dirt was flying off of it and mumbled words along to a nonexistent accompaniment. It was not the easiest endeavor, considering that Shasta didn’t actually know the words of the song. He didn’t even know what the song was about, only that it involved the north in some capacity. 

“Shasta, no,” Arsheesh mumbled at a point, and Shasta halted in his humming, confused as to what Arsheesh was referring to. 

“What, Baba?”

“Please no singing now.”

Shasta furrowed his brows, his mouth in a resolute line. 

_You always said you liked it when I sang_ , he wanted to say. _What changed?_

He didn’t ask, though, because he didn’t want to trouble Arsheesh. This was meant to be a break. 

Still, as he was fixing nets later in the day, he couldn’t help but hum again. It was a different song this time, just a gentle little ditty some of the shepherds sang to their goats and dogs sometimes. Arsheesh didn’t say anything, not even when Shasta sang a bit louder. 

That was curious, but Shasta figured that Arsheesh’s mood had to have passed. So he switched songs after the ditty ended, and moved onto the song of the north. 

“Shasta,” Arsheesh said, and Shasta frowned. 

“You were fine when I was singing a bit earlier,” he pointed out, too tired to be agreeable. 

“Just… not now, please.”

Shasta frowned and fixed a few frayed edges. “It’s because it deals with the north, isn’t it?”

Arsheesh froze and shot a look at Shasta. “What do you mean by that?”

“It’s because the song mentions the north somehow. That’s why you don’t want me to sing.” Shasta would have crossed his arms if his hands had not been occupied, but he adopted a petulant tone nonetheless, knowing that he was right, if not why.

“I’m not interested in hearing about it.”

Shasta huffed. “Do you even know what it is? Who lives there?”

The answer had to be, of course, _no_ , because that was the greatest mystery of the north. Sure, everything was a mystery when it came to the north, but the greatest secret had to be its inhabitants. Shasta had always thought it was the place of paradise, and liked to imagine all the heroes from the legends and stories making their way there and resting there. 

Shasta knew that his view wasn’t entirely popular. The villagers, for instance, always stared at him and said, “There will probably be people like you, milk-face. You don’t come from the south so you must have come from the north.”

The villagers never got to say much more about it, because either Arsheesh would drag him away or Shasta would get into a wrestling match or a fist fight. 

_Milk-face_ . Shasta _hated_ that nickname. He knew that compared to the others, he was a lot lighter skinned, but he was still a Calormene. And if he had to have a nickname on the basis of his skin, he’d prefer it not to be around something that soured. 

“I know enough,” Arsheesh said tightly, and Shasta’s attention snapped back to the conversation. 

“But then—”

“We don’t speak of the north,” Arsheesh said, almost harshly, “because there are very few good things there for people like us.” 

Shasta could only stare and gape. 

“What do you mean?” Shasta asked finally, and Arsheesh didn’t answer. When he finally opened his mouth again, it was when their work was almost over. 

“Did I ever tell you of the great inventor, Vikram?” Arsheeh asked and he had, but Shasta didn’t stop him. He was too wrapped up in thinking. 

_People like us._ Did that mean poor? Did that mean without a woman in the house? Did that mean isolated? Did that just mean different? Shasta didn’t know and he couldn’t even begin to puzzle out his father’s words, still reeling from them. 

Because the north was a place of paradise. It was where anything could happen, where it was a little less hot and had more rain so shallow riverbeds didn’t run dry in the summer. There were more fish, as well as sweet foods and delicacies that Shasta had only heard of, but that would be there for them all the same. The donkey could rest there, and they could have other donkeys, maybe even _horses_. It was where the stories and the myths and the legends could come true. 

It was Shasta’s place of dreams, even as he knew that logically, the north would be nothing like that, because the north was a real place. Maybe the weather would be different, but he doubted that money would, and he doubted that the dead and fictional could come to life there. 

It was nice to pretend, though. It was nice to think of a place where everything could be okay, could be _beyond_ okay. It was a place of _dreams_ for a reason, and Shasta was sure that Arsheesh knew this. Arsheesh had to have known this. 

_There are very few good things there for people like us_. 

Shasta could almost hear his dream shattering apart. 

Shasta spent the rest of the night telling himself that of course the north of his dreams, dreams which were fantastical in nature and _not real,_ was not the north of reality. 

He told himself this over and over, presented the same evidence over and over, as if repeating the same facts over and over would bring some new revelation. As if repetition would be what allowed Shasta to stabilize and accept that _his dreams were not real_. 

And yet, despite it all, he was still here. Still awake and feeling like he was on the verge of crying. 

Which, out of everything that had happened, out of all his thoughts, had to be the _most_ stupid, because if he was going to cry, it would be over something worth crying over and not something that could have never been in the first place. 

Biting his lip, he chanted to himself, _don’t think of the north, don’t think of the north_ , but it was impossible. When he closed his eyes, he could see the image he had built of the north burning down. 

Shasta turned on his side, but sleep still would not come. After minutes of tossing and turning, he sat up. He would… take a walk. Walks always helped. And then when he came back, he could do work. There was always work to do, and if he got some done now, then he would have less tomorrow. 

Yes. That was a good plan. He just needed to put one foot in front of the other to achieve it. Walk a few steps to get out of his room, walk more to leave the house, walk on and on and stumble through the land. Focus on anything other than his own mind; the sky, the path, the river that led out to the sea. And, when his feet ached from going too long barefoot on the path, make his way back. 

The walk was longer than he had intended, but Shasta couldn’t be bothered to care. He just pulled out the nets that needed to be mended and started to do so. Arsheesh sometimes shifted on the mat he slept on, and at those times, Shasta would freeze in his work, only resuming when Arsheesh seemed to be in deep sleep again. 

_North, north, north_ , he thought as he mended, and as his fingers moved to untangle strings and repair torn or frayed parts, he imagined a sea. He imagined waves and a flood, and water pouring over the north. It poured over the fires and removed all heat until the north Shasta saw wasn’t his anymore. It was a frozen place, filled with jagged mountains and harsh colors and _cold_. 

It was so cold, Shasta mused as he mended, the water sometimes turned to ice before it hit the ground, and then shattered into shards. 

_The north deserves it_ , he thought even if he didn’t know why. _If it has no good things for people like us, then it will get no good things from us either. It won’t get the heat to warm up the place, it will not get our work to mend the broken places, it will not get_ us _to learn about it or visit it. It will be alone. Utterly alone, because it has no good things for us._

That felt… satisfying, in a way. Shasta finished the net he was on, and then quietly walked to where Arsheesh was asleep, and laid down besides him. He took care that Arsheesh didn’t wake and moved in as close as he dared. He rested his head on his arm and slowly closed his eyes. 

_North, north, north_ , was a whisper at the back of his mind, but he paid it no mind. North was a place of dreams, of nightmares, and it was not meant for people like Shasta. 

And he would just have to live with that. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tarkaan comes calling.

Neither of them talked about it the next day. Arsheesh asked how he slept, and Shasta had replied _well_ and _late because I was mending some nets_. 

And then it was back to work. Shasta didn’t sing any songs relating to the north and the only times he dreamed of it was when those waves would flood, freeze, and shatter in his dreams. 

So superficially, life had resumed to normal, even if Shasta felt as though there was something distinctly _not_ normal about it. 

He still thought too much, after all, but at least it wasn’t about a place he would never reach. He still had idiotic dreams, but all were grounded in some kind of reality. He still got into fights with kids in the village when they called him _milk-face_ or talked about _his people_ , as if he was something other, but the insult came not from being not Carlormene, but from being compared to anyone up north. 

“They’re not my people,” Shasta hissed one time, as he broke a boy’s nose. The boy had staggered back and stared, because despite the volume, all fights were harmless. The worst anyone would get were a few bruises. Shasta couldn’t bring himself to care about breaking that unspoken rule, though. He was tired and fed up with all the comments and with having the constant reminder that he was different in a sense he would never understand and in a way that struck too closely to his past dream. 

“And,” Shasta had added, when he was leaving, “if they _are_ demons, I’d gladly fight them.”

The comments died down after that, and the village was mostly quiet when it concerned him and Arsheesh. True, Shasta still got into fights from time to time, but it was over smaller things. He was never called milk-face again and there was even more respect when the two of them came to town now. 

But Shasta was dissatisfied—he was dissatisfied with most things these days—but even he felt the peace and felt content with it. He was even sure that for the rest of his days, he would stay like this: quiet and unassuming, with no large drama to distract him. 

And things seemed to be going like that. Until the Tarkaan came calling, that was. 

It was a particularly warm evening, and both Shasta and Arsheesh were exhausted from having sold fish in the marketplace for the majority of the day. 

“I think we’ve earned a special dinner,” Arsheesh said, heading into their small kitchen. Shasta collapsed onto a pile of pillows. It was a rough landing and it was particularly sore on the bruises a kid managed to give him the other day, but Shasta still managed to relax. 

Arsheesh yelled something and Shasta mumbled, “I’ll be up in a minute.”

Obviously that was not what Arsheesh wanted as an answer, because Shasta could hear him coming to the room. Sighing, he propped himself up but noticed that Arsheesh made his way to the door, not to Shasta. Shasta instinctively moved out of sight of the door. 

“Good health, _farani_ ,” a deep voice said, and Shasta instinctively tensed. He knew it was the standard greeting from an upper class individual to a lower class one and he knew that theoretically, it meant nothing except to display a difference in power. He _knew_ that, but he also knew that he always heard it when the upper class were trying to get something out of the lower. And Shasta really didn’t want to have to work harder for an outcome that wouldn’t even go to him. “My horse and I are spent from the journey, and we spied your stable. Mind you if we stay here for the night?”

It wasn’t like Arsheesh could say no. Shasta, knowing this, scuttled out of the way and out of sight, just as Arsheesh remarked that yes, of course he could stay the night. Arsheesh left the house and Shasta watched as he directed the stranger to the stable. Shasta couldn’t help but notice that the horse looked incredibly fancy and decided that this stranger was of a very high rank indeed; certainly higher than anyone in the village. He ducked out of the way when the two men were returning. He wasn’t quite sure why, but he didn’t want to get any comments on his milk-face from someone so high up. 

It was useless though, because the Tarkaan clearly noticed that this small home didn’t hold one person, and that led to questions as to who else lived here. It was doubly useless, because Arsheesh hated lying and the price of lying to a Tarkaan was too high, so Arsheesh told the truth. 

“My son lives with me,” Arsheesh said quietly. 

“Your son?” the Tarkaan asked. Shasta wanted to retreat to somewhere farther away, but the home was small and there wasn’t really anywhere to go. “What’s his name?”

“Shasta.”

“A good name,” the Tarkaan said, and Shasta’s skin crawled. He liked his name, but after the way that the Tarkaan said it, he wanted to be called anything else. “Hopefully for a good son.”

“He is a very good son.”

“Where is he now?”

“He is resting,” Arsheesh said, but because stupid culture and etiquette called for it, Shasta knew that Arsheesh was coming to get him. “But he will gladly get up for such an esteemed guest. Shasta?”

The Tarkaan, of course, made protests of “No, no, don’t disturb his sleep,” but that only meant “Bring him here.” Shasta found it nice sometimes to engage in that game, but now he earnestly hated it. 

He got up from the mat he had been lying down on and padded down the hall. 

“Shasta, we have a Tarkaan as a guest,” Arsheesh announced. Shasta bowed and made the polite greetings and then offered food and drink. 

The Tarkaan refused and of course they had to insist that the Tarkaan _should_ have something, until he finally relented to a drink of sharbat. Shasta went to their small kitchen to make the drink, taking as much time as he dared with preparing it. He really didn’t want the Tarkaan to look at him again, but he also couldn’t stall forever.

Eventually, he carried the tray into the living room where Arsheesh and the Tarkaan were talking. Shasta wasn’t sure what exactly it was about as he focused more on finishing his own drink. Once that happened, he could leave. 

Arsheesh seemed to be of the same mind. “Unfortunately,” he said after he noticed Shasta’s empty glass, “Shasta has some work to do, now he’s awake. Our donkey needs care, and he needs to set out new fishing traps.”

Arsheesh nodded at Shasta and Shasta took the excuse to go, even though his muscles ached. He turned around and Arsheesh gave him a careful wink. 

_Rest_ , the wink said. _You don’t have to work—this is only an excuse._

Shasta nodded his head minutely and headed out. For a moment, he considered sneaking his way to his room before he scrapped the idea. It would be better to hang around outside. It would give him an excuse to be away from the Tarkaan and at any rate, the weather had been getting warmer. Being inside would just be a pain. 

_And_ , Shasta thought, _I can hear what they’re talking about._

Shasta crept closer to the house, and as he did so, he could hear the Tarkaan speaking. 

“And now, my dear and generous host,” said the Tarkaan, “I wanted to talk about that boy of yours.”

“Ah yes?” Arsheesh asked and Shasta felt like this was a serious matter, because his father was not lavishing compliments on the Tarkaan. Arsheesh tended to forget or ignore such parts of etiquette when something was serious. 

“I have a mind to buy him.”

Shasta stiffened and looked to the window with shocked eyes. 

“My lord,” Arsheesh said quietly, because this was _definitely_ a serious matter and Shasta knew that he was being careful to not get the Tarkaan mad, “as Xeran said, family is the most precious thing that is allotted to us, and its value cannot be replaced with a material price. Do not make your poor servant choose between his blood and his will to serve.”

“But as Lafanran said,” the Tarkaan replied, not moved at all, “‘He who attempts to deceive the judicious is already baring his own back for the scourge.’ Anyone with eyes can see that the child is not yours. While he has been touched by the sun, I have no doubt that he was or would have been as fair and light as the northerners. He is not from this land and you would do well to answer as to where you stole him or give him to me.”

“I did not steal him,” Arsheesh replied stiffly. 

“And how would I know that?”

Shasta heard a long sigh and he barely registered Arsheesh speaking again, too caught up in the revelation that he was not Arsheesh’s son by blood. 

It made sense, of course. Shasta did not look like any of the Calormene, _milk-face_ being a prime piece of evidence of that fact. He also didn’t look like any of the travelers that were rarely seen but often spoke of; those who came from the east, west, and south. Which meant that, according to looks, the only place left he could be from was the north. Which meant that the villagers were right, and he really wasn’t one of them. 

It made sense that Shasta wasn’t Arsheesh’s birth son, but only in the way that Shasta had known that his old dream of the north was unrealistic and fantasy. 

“My formidable guest,” Arsheesh said and Shasta’s attention drifted back to the conversation, “due to my extreme poverty, I have never married and though I very much loved to have children, I did not and never thought I would ever have any. But in the year the Tisroc, may he live forever, began his reign, I could not sleep, as the light of the moon was too strong. Seeing that I would get no rest, I rose from my bed and went to the beach, hoping that the sounds of the water would bring peace to me. It was then, standing at the shore, that I could see a distant shape coming closer and the sounds of oars. There was a weak cry, and I realized that it must be someone in a small boat, and that this person was in trouble. 

“Knowing this, I went to get my own boat, and I rowed until I could meet up with the boat. I called out to the man inside it, asking what help he needed, but he was slumped on the bench. I managed to attach his boat to mine, and I rowed us both back to shore. I heard that small cry again, but my back was to his boat, so I could not see if it was the man or someone else. I thought it sounded like a small child, though. 

“When I dragged the two boats ashore enough so that the waves would not wash them back out, I found that the man, a northerner, had died. He was warm, so he must have died either right before I reached him or someway along the trip back to shore. In the boat, there was an empty water skin, no food, and an infant child, who was still alive. 

“I could scarcely believe it until an understanding came over to me: these two had to have escaped from the wreck of a ship, a great one for the clothing and armor the man had on him were expensive and of high quality. The man had starved himself of the water and possibly the food so that the child would live. I buried the man the best I could and took the child home. I kept watch on the coast for any incoming ship, to see if anyone was looking for either the man or the child, but no ship came. And so, I took him in—”

“And you quite obviously exploited him,” the Tarkaan cut in. “You took the child, and now he is just as much of a work animal as your mule is.”

Arsheesh didn’t say anything to that, but Shasta was fighting the desire to burst into the room and knock the Tarkaan flat on his back. He was just about to do it when the Tarkaan continued. “Now tell me, what price will you put on him?”

“You have said that the boy’s labor has been of great value to me,” Arsheesh started, and Shasta froze, not believing that the words were coming out of Arsheesh’s mouth, “and this must be taken into account for the prince. Should I sell him, I will need to hire another, and hiring one costs much more than keeping the one I have now.”

“Fifteen crescents,” the Tarkaan said smoothly. 

“Fifteen?” Arsheesh exclaimed. “ _Fifteen?_ You may be a Tarkaan, but that does not give you any permission to mock me as such. My price is a hundred.”

Shasta seemed to regain movement at that, and he got up and quietly left. 

He knew the tone in Arsheesh’s voice, identifying it distantly as the one he used when he was bargaining with someone incredibly difficult. If this time was like any of the other bargains, the end price would be much less than a hundred crescents, but much more than fifteen, though it would take hours to reach that agreement. 

Shasta made his way to the stable where their donkey lived. There was work to be done there, right? There was something to be done there, and whatever it was, Shasta knew it was more appealing than playing that entire conversation in his mind again. 

When he entered, he saw the Tarkaan’s horse was in the other stall, where their other donkey used to live. Until it died, that was. Shasta’s throat constricted and his eyes prickled. The last thing he needed was to start crying, so he turned back to the alive donkey, vaguely wondering if the horse was uncomfortable. The stall couldn’t have been large enough for it. 

Looking into the donkey’s eyes, he asked, “Did you know Ba—Arsheesh was really like that?”

He figured that the donkey had to have the answer, but it didn’t even react. It didn’t blink, didn’t snort, didn’t even turn its gaze. Shasta sniffed and refused to cry. 

“How about you?” he asked, turning to the horse. “Do you know what your master is like?”

The horse at least had the decency to react. It snorted once Shasta had said “your master.” 

“Yeah, I’d hate to call someone my master too,” Shasta said mournfully. “Is he kind at least? I think I could manage if he was at least kind. Then he could treat me decently and I wouldn’t have to work so much, and maybe he’d set me free one day. Or he could just be horrendously awful. He _is_ a Tarkaan.”

Shasta sighed and the horse lifted its head towards him. Cautiously, he approached it, ignoring the huff of the donkey, and when the horse didn’t show any signs of displeasure, he stroked it gently. It was soft, a lot softer than the donkey and a lot softer than Shasta’s hands. 

“You’d know what he’s like,” Shasta said quietly. “I wish you could talk and tell me.”

Then, for a second, Shasta thought he had suddenly fallen asleep, because a low voice that he was _certain_ came from the horse, said, “But I can.”

Shasta blinked and then stared into the large eyes that were looking back at him. 

“You can talk,” he said. 

“Yes,” the horse said. 

Shasta felt his breath quicken and his hand drop from the horse’s nose. “You can _talk_.”

The horse snorted once again. “Yes, I believe I already said that.”

“You can—” Shasta shook his head. “How do you know how to talk?”

“Hush!” Shasta clamped his mouth shut, not even realizing how loud he had grown. The horse looked around warily and then, looking back at Shasta, said, “Don’t speak so loud.”

“Sorry,” Shasta whispered. “But how do you know how to talk?”

“Where I come from, nearly all of the animals talk.”

“And where’s that?” Shasta asked, voice still in a whisper. 

“Narnia,” the horse answered. “The happy land of Narnia. Narnia with the heathery, northern mountains and the thymy downs; Narnia with the many rivers, the plashing glens, the mossy caverns, and the deep forests ringing with the hammers of the Dwarfs. An hour’s life here is better than a thousand years in Calormen.” The horse ended the small speech with a whinny that sounded very much like a sigh. 

Shasta shifted uncomfortably. Narnia sounded like it could be good, but he doubted that it could be so much better than Calormen. Besides, it was in the _north_. 

“How did you get here then?” Shasta asked. _Since it’s so very well over there_ , he did not add. 

“Kidnapped,” said the horse, and Shasta immediately felt sorry. “Or stolen, or captured—whatever you’d like to call it. I was a foal at the time. My mother always warned me not to range into the southern slopes, to Archenland and past that, but I didn’t listen. By the Lion’s Mane, I have _paid_ for that. I’ve been a slave to humans ever since, and I’ve had to pretend to be dumb and witless like their horses.”

“But why didn’t you tell them who you were?” Shasta asked. “They would’ve felt sorry and let you go.”

The horse let out a braying sound that immediately quieted, as if the horse remembered that it was in their best interest to be quiet. The horse settled for looking almost bitter. 

“I’m not that big of a fool,” the horse said. “If they’d found out that I could talk, they’d have put me in fairs and shows, and I’d have even less of a chance of escape. Besides, I didn’t know the language at the time.”

“So why—” began Shasta, but the horse interrupted him. 

“Now look,” said the horse, “we mustn’t waste time on idle questions. At any rate, we can answer those on the way. You wanted to know about the Tarkaan Anradin. Simply put, he’s bad. Not too bad to me, because a war horse costs too much to be treated very badly. But you won’t cost all that much and trust me, you’d prefer to be lying dead tonight than be a human slave in his house tomorrow.”

“Then I’d better run away,” Shasta said, turning very pale.

“Yes,” the horse said. “But why not run away with me?”

It took a moment for Shasta to understand the words. 

“Run away? With you?” Shasta asked and the horse bobbed its head. “So you’re running away too?”

“If you’ll come, yes,” the horse said. “We’d be more successful together. If I go without a rider, I’ll be seen as a stray horse and people will try to catch me. With a rider, I’ve got a chance. You, if you go on your own, can’t get very far without the Tarkaan overtaking you. But with a horse, you’ll be seen as more legitimate, and you’ll get on farther. I can outdistance any horse that comes after us, so you needn’t worry about getting caught.” Then, almost like an afterthought, it asked, “You do know how to ride, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Shasta said. “Well, I’ve ridden the donkey.”

“Ridden the _what_?” the horse retorted with extreme contempt. At least, that was what Shasta thought it said. It was rather hard to tell, as the horse erupted into a bray at the end of the sentence. 

After an angry snort, the horse continued, “In other words, you can’t ride. That’s a drawback but I’ll teach you as we go along. Can you fall at least?”

“Can’t anyone fall?” 

“I mean can you fall and get up again without crying. Can you mount again and then fall again and not be afraid of falling again?”

The horse had been saying this with rather a severe tone, and Shasta was going to answer with a resolute “yes,” before he remembered how often he’d been crying recently. 

“I—I’ll try,” he managed to get out. 

“Poor little beast,” the horse said, gentler than it was before. “I forget that you’re only a foal. Don’t worry about it. You’ll be a fine rider and the falls won’t hurt you at that point. Now, we shouldn’t leave until those two are asleep. Meantime, we can make plans. The Tarkaan is on his way north to Tashbaan and the court of the Tisroc.” 

Shasta frowned when the horse didn't continue. “Shouldn’t you say ‘May he live forever?’”

“Why?” the horse asked. “I’m a Narnian, not a Calormene. At any rate, I don’t want him to live forever, and I know he’s not going to, whether I want him to or not.”

Shasta nodded, hesitatingly. He supposed it made sense and besides, Arsheesh always said—

Shasta clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to think of Arsheesh now. 

“So we should go south,” Shasta said after some silence. “Since the Tarkaan’s going north?”

“I think not,” the horse said. “See, he thinks that I’m dumb, so if I got lost, he’ll assume I’ll head back to the stable and paddock. Which is in his palace, a two day journey south. That’s where he’ll look for me. Or he’ll think someone from the last village followed him to steal me, and he’ll head back in that direction. So it’s best we go to the north, but we’d best be careful about it.”

“So we’re going to the north,” Shasta said, rather numbly. He knew it was the better of two bad situations. Being a slave was worse than being in a place that wasn’t for someone like him. 

At that, Shasta scowled. It had been _Arsheesh_ who had told him that and Shasta thought that, considering the circumstances, Arsheesh didn’t really get a say in anything now. 

The north, and Narnia by extension, could be a good place. An unfrozen place. A hopefully not too cold place. It couldn’t be too cold, if the horse had been living there. 

But it wasn’t like it mattered what the north was or wasn’t. All that mattered was that it was better than being a slave and what the horse said made sense. So north was the only place to go. 

“You know,” Shasta said, with more feeling than he actually felt, “I actually wanted to go to the north.”

“Of course you do,” the horse said. “You’re of the northern folk, I’m sure. Now, don’t be too loud, but go and see if they’re asleep now.” 

Shasta nodded, electing to ignore the first comment, and then padded back to the house. The little sound his footsteps made were further obscured by the constant crash of the waves upon the beach. No light was in the house, and as he came close to the window, he could spy Arsheesh sleeping. There was the sound of his squeaky snore and was struck by the realization that if everything went according to plan, he would never hear that snore again. He would never hear the sound of these waves again, and he wouldn’t see the donkey again. 

Shasta bit his lip, feeling more sorry than he cared to feel, and went back to the stable to gather up the horse’s saddle and bridle. He stopped at the donkey’s stall before he went the rest of the length to the horse’s. 

“I’m sorry we can’t take you,” he whispered, kissing the donkey’s nose and then moving forward before he could get regrets. 

“There you are,” the horse said. “Everything go alright?”

Shasta nodded. “Got your things out, too,” he added. “How do you put them on?”

The horse instructed him, and Shasta spent the next few minutes cautiously working to avoid any sound, while the horse would tell him things like “Get that girth a bit tighter,” or “You’ll find a buckle lower down,” or “You’ll need to shorten those stirrups a good bit.” 

When everything was finished, it said, “Now, we’ve got to keep the reins for the look of the thing, but you won’t be using them. Tie them to the saddle-bow; yes, like that, but more slack so I can do whatever I like with my head. And remember, you’re not to touch them.”

“What are they for, then?” Shasta asked, finishing loosening the reins. 

“Ordinarily, directing the horse,” the horse replied. “But I’m going to do the directing, so keep your hands to yourself. Also, you’re not to go grabbing my mane.”

“How am I going to keep on?” Shasta asked. 

“With your knees,” the horse said. “You grip my body with your knees as hard as you like. Sit up straight and keep your elbows in. What did you do with the spurs?”

“Put them on my heels,” Shasta said. “That’s how I’ve always seen it done.” 

“Take them off and put them in the saddle-bag. We can sell them later if we need them. Ready? I think you can get up.”

Shasta tried, he really did, but he couldn’t even reach the horse. “You’re a dreadful height,” he said, almost accusingly. 

“I’m a horse,” the horse replied blithely. “But anyone would think I’m a haystack by the way you’re trying to climb me! Alright, yes, that’s better. Now sit _up_ and remember what I told you about your knees and elbows. Funny to think that I’ve led cavalry charges and won races and now I’ve got to teach a potato-sack like you. Ah well, here we go.” 

The horse chuckled then, though not unkindly, and the two of them left the stable and headed down the road. 

The journey began quite cautiously. They first headed a bit towards the south to leave prints. When the Tarkaan and Arsheesh awoke, it was vital for them to think that they were going south. They continued south a bit farther, before heading into a river. That was when they turned around to the other side, which was gravely and would not leave prints. Once the horse had shaken itself off a bit, the trip north really began. The horse, at a walking pace, continued until they reached and passed the fisherman’s cottage, until everything Shasta had ever known had passed out of sight. 

At that point, Shasta was feeling rather sore, and he had to bite his lip hard when he could no longer recognize the area around him. Shrubs and trees and rocks made up the land around him, and yet, it felt like there was almost nothing around. No, not that there was nothing, but that the land was vast and endless, and that there was far too little to occupy all this new space. 

Shasta did not like it. He kept his eyes trained on the back of the horse’s head and his attention on not falling. 

“I say,” the horse said, quiet, but louder than it had been before, “what a place for a gallop, eh?”

“Please don’t,” Shasta said, voice also quiet. “I don’t know how to yet. Please—please, horse.”

The horse bristled. 

“I’m sorry,” Shasta said. “But I don’t know your name.”

“Breehy-hinny-brinny-hoohy-hah,” the horse responded promptly. 

Shasta tried, but the words stumbled on his tongue. 

“Can I just call you Bree?” he asked after his seventh attempt and yet another frustrated snort from the horse. 

“If that’s the best you can do, I suppose so. What shall I call you?”

“Shasta.”

“Hm,” Bree said. “Well, now. That’s a name that’s _really_ hard to pronounce. But about this gallop. It’s a good deal easier than trotting if you knew, because you don’t have to rise and fall. Grip with our knees and keep your eyes straight ahead, between my ears. Don’t look at the ground, and if you think you’re going to fall, grip harder and sit up straighter. Ready? Now for Narnia and the north.”

Bree let out a loud neigh, and Shasta struggled to hang on. And yet, despite the struggle, when he felt the wind roaring past his ears, he felt lighter than he had in years. 

Bree neighed again, picking up more speed and this time, Shasta joined in with a whoop of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a month later and chapter two is finally up. Here's to hoping that the next chapter comes out sooner.

**Author's Note:**

> So! I posted a first chapter! This is my first time posting/writing a fic so please be kind and deal with me as I learn how AO3 works. If you enjoyed this... mayhaps give comment or kudos?
> 
> Anyways, I don't know how often I'll update this, but updating is something that *will* happen, so there's that going for me. Hope you all are having a good day/night/evening/whatever time of day it is where you're at!


End file.
